80 Proof
by Catherine Wheels
Summary: Poor darling fell from grace and right into my arms. -Russia/FemChina. Fall of the USSR.-


_A/N: More fall of the Soviet Union. _

_I payed attention to the poll. Y'all are awesome, you know? I'm so happy you want more FemChina and Russia. I really am! Because I love writing for FemChina. Though... My version is a bit different than I think is normal... Whatever. _

_This fic is super short and crappy, but I don't care because tomorrow I go see my girlfriend and won't be back for two weeks. At which point you can expect me to have plans for a Russia/ManChina fic, a China/Canada/America/Russia fic, and a Spain/Russia fic. _

_Oh, and in this, Russia's boss is supposed to be Yeltsin, who was, alledgedly, an alcoholic. _

* * *

Poor darling moves in his sleep and his shoulders pop. He groans, turns over, and mumbles in his sleep. He's gotten so thin, poor thing. Doesn't eat when he should and eats too much when he does. He says he doesn't need food, because it all tastes the same. He says everything tastes like blood.

He sleeps late and stumbles into the kitchen. Starts to drink. By noon, he's sick again. His skin has started to turn grey and the sores on the sides of his neck bother him. I tell him not to scratch but he does and then cries when he sees the blood. I would chide him, but when there is blood, there is the opportunity for me to bandage him up, to touch him without him flinching.

His boss comes to see us. It is his house after all. His boss isn't in much better shape than he is. They're both sick. Everyone near Russia is sick. His boss asks such stupid questions. "How are the finances? How is the population? Why aren't you doing what I ask?"

Isn't it obvious, sir? He can't do what you want. He's barely in enough health to do what I want, which is really all I care about. When Russia's boss is there, Russia just sits stupid and lets the words go in one ear and out the other. Sometimes he can manage a nod, but mostly he is a statue.

When it is all over, and his boss has gone, he collapses into my arms. "I'm tired. Will you fix me a drink?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

Fixing him a drink simply entails giving him the bottle, as though I were a mother. I sometimes feel like I am. But as long as I am the mother, I am also the God. He kneels at my feet and mutters how good it is I'm taking care of him, how kind I am, how sweet I taste and how sick he is. As though I cannot see that. Poor darling began to unravel years ago and now I am left picking up the frayed ends of who he used to be, attempting to make bracelets out of the strings I can find. He fits so pretty on my arm.

I hold his hair back when he vomits and I brush his tears away when he sobs. The dysphoria is sharp and constant, a permanent scar that stands out more than the others. Since the fall, he's had many scars; they run like creeks across his upper arms and thighs. "Didn't I used to be powerful?" he asks, the spit dripping from his lips, his eyes hollow, his voice broken and thick.

"You did, sweetheart. You did. But you should forget that now."

"I'm trying. Da, I'm trying my best." He tries in vain to push me aside, and then throws up again. I tell him he should wait to drink until he has something in his stomach, because I know liquids come back with more ferocity and fire than anything else. He doesn't listen. He never did.

Yes, he used to be powerful. He used to own the sea and the sky and the loyalty of many. He used to cut people just to watch them bleed and rape them just to hear them scream. He used to be a cheerful hedonist with an unnerving smile and the deadest of eyes. Yes, he was powerful, but powerful like any dime-a-dozen tyrant was.

This is better. He doesn't know it, of course, but it's true. Poor darling is too drunk and sick to know what's good for him anymore, and that's why I'm here. When the day comes that he manages to form coherent sentences, when he is just enough aware enough to be logical, I will take him to my house. My boss says I need more land, and what could be better than this? An old ally will surely be more than likely to give me whatever I need from him, especially after how kind I've been.

I'm not going to be the kind of ruler he was. I'm not going to abuse him or mutilate him. I'm not going to suck everything from him as he tried to do to me. I'm not going to say one thing and do another as he did. I will honestly love him. At least, as much as I do now.

At times, I really do love him. He's so quiet these days, not throwing half as many temper tantrums. He needs me, and I love to be needed. I understand why he did what he did, of course: he loved control. What Nation doesn't? To be in control is the most wonderful feeling we can know. And he knew it quite well, as I will soon.

Poor darling lays down beside me and moans. He's going to cry again soon. That's just the way it goes. I trace the lines of his cheekbones with my thumb and he turns his face to me. Looking into his eyes is like looking into the definition of madness.

"How are you feeling?" I ask. I know the answer, but I know it's polite to care, or at least put up the appearance of such.

He closes his gem-violet eyes that used to gleam so bright and shrugs. "A little better."

I lean in and kiss his forehead. His skin is damp and cold. "I'm glad."

"When will this be over?"

"Whenever it is over."

In truth, it could be over the minute he decides it is. But that is the nice thing about Russia: underneath the sadism I knew so well, there was a part of him that loved to suffer, that brought the suffering upon itself, and screamed and bled along with the victims. This could all be over if he simply chose to take the steps necessary for it to be, but he won't.

He's fallen from grace and power, and I believe, deep down, he's secretly happy about it. Now there are no responsibilities except to be sick. And he will be sick for as long as he wants. I only hope he is sick long enough for me to take control of him.

Poor darling never did know how to manage himself. And I'm more than happy to do it for him.


End file.
